Weakness
by Waiting For a Flame
Summary: Catra deals with her lingering feelings as she recovers from the portal.


_I can help you. _

The hallways of the Fright Zone, once looming, bleak and immaculate, now lay covered in debris. The younger cadets cleaned up the mess, supervised by various Force Captains. Cleaning was beneath them, it seemed. Their pride came at a cost; little fingers could only lift and carry so much rubble. It would be ages before the Fright Zone was restored to its former glory.

Catra supposed she had herself to blame.

At the moment, however, she was beyond guilt. The left side of her face ached and was beginning to swell. Her right arm tingled from the loss in the portal realm. A ringing noise permeated her ears, heightening her overall discomfort.

Above all, the worst consequence was the memories. If Catra allowed herself to linger, she could still feel the softness of Adora's hand in her own. The fleeting admiration in her blue eyes when things had been perfect. So perfect. The good memories didn't last as long as she wanted them to. The kindness in Adora's eyes would eventually change to confusion, then unfiltered rage, narrowing at her in a way that meant there would be no going back. Adora would never forgive her.

_I can offer you a way out._

Her bedroom was only a short walk from Hordak's sanctum, but between the destruction, the whispers and glances of the cadets cleaning up, and the burning pit in her stomach, it felt like ages before Catra finally reached it. She was careful to close the door as soft as she could, refusing to betray a hint of her bubbling emotions. Never again. In that regard, Catra was willing to accept all the blame.

A sharp pain enveloped her arm, white-hot and sudden. She growled, her fingernails buried in her shoulder in an attempt to contain it, but the past few hours had taught her that there was nothing to do but wait. Slowly, the sensation dulled from a burning flame to a content ember, warm and not nearly comforting. When it had finally subsided, Catra let go of her arm, ignoring the sharp sting in her eyes from the refusal to cry.

No more.

Long ago, she'd been mocked for her tears. Catra didn't remember much of where she'd come from, or her life before the Fright Zone. But she remembered the tears. Upon arriving, all she did was cry. Force Captains had punished her. Other cadets had teased her, dubbing her 'crybaby' until she'd grown bold enough to attack them. Shadow Weaver had taken a specific displeasure in her tears, often subduing Catra in agonizing waves until she had bigger problems to worry about, like breathing.

Still, it seemed that she had never quite learned her lesson. A dumb decision, really. It would have been in her best interest to learn. To stop succumbing to her pitiful emotions and toughen herself up once and for all. Yet despite the punishments, the names, the general disdain others had for everything about her, Catra had allowed herself to remain vulnerable. In this vulnerability, she had Adora.

Adora's love had kept her going. When there were tears, Adora would be there with a comforting word and fingers running through her hair. With her, she could laugh and let herself be cared for. Within reason, of course. The harder she fought, the more Adora cared. Every fight was met with a scolding, every cut and bruise patched up with small, nimble fingers. The longer Catra thought about it, the more she wanted to collapse on her bed and let the grief overwhelm her.

She purposefully turned from her bed, yanking off her face-protector and tossing it to the side. Adora was gone; she'd left her. Adora left her behind to become a princess, to frolic around and save the day with her new friends. Like Catra had never even existed in the first place. Maybe she shouldn't have; the world would certainly be better off without her. No one really needed her around. Shadow Weaver had Adora. Adora had her little friends and her new princess squad. Not even Hordak truly needed her around.

Her teeth clenched together, and she stopped herself just mere seconds before slamming her fist against the wall. Catra could make herself useful. Forget Adora. Forget Shadow Weaver. Hordak would see what she could do, especially now that she'd sent Entrapta away. Scorpia still listened to her, as did the rest of her Crimson Waste crew. There was still hope, still a way she could make her place in this world.

"They'll see," she muttered to herself, pushing herself off the wall and making her way towards the mirror. The reflection that met her seemed someone new, a stranger. She held herself straight, no longer slouching. Her eyes, once wide and clamoring for approval now seemed hardened, more cautious. It was as if she'd aged years in a matter of hours; she respected it. Yet, something was off.

Catra's fingers found themselves in her gray tufts, tugging the short strands with a frown. The sensation reminded her of the last time she'd done this. Shadow Weaver had pulled her in, only to use her. It hadn't been the first time, but this time it left a mark on her. This time, it had been a personal attack. A weakness, left and exploited for Shadow Weaver's personal gain. For her to get back to Adora.

_Don't make me destroy you too._

Within moments she flung herself towards her dresser, rummaging in the first drawer for her knife from the Crimson Waste. How could she have missed this? She'd been so focused on the portal, on Adora, that she hadn't even thought to consider Shadow Weaver's claim on her. The moment the knife was in her hand, she returned to the mirror, anger shaking her to the core. She could still hear the soothing words. The delicate touch, oh so tender and sweet. Everything she'd ever wanted to hear and feel finally coming true.

Catra grasped a handful of the gray locks and brought the knife to it, hacking it forcefully and ignoring the pain. She refused to allow herself any weakness, not anymore. Not if she was to make something of herself.

As she cut, she heard Adora's laughter. Flashes of their childhood surrendered themselves to her memory. Nights together, laying side by side as Adora smoothed out the tangled knots in her hair. Fighting each other, Catra growing stronger but Adora always having the upper hand. Shadow Weaver's pets and praises and promises, all to her favorite ward and leaving Catra untouched, unloved.

Breathing hard, Catra hacked each gray lock to bits, everything in her mind screaming for the memories to go away. She didn't want them anymore. She didn't want to feel this way anymore, and not ever again. If there was anything left of her heart, it would no longer cry for Adora. It would never long for an unattainable love again, not from her, and especially not from Shadow Weaver. Not when it brought nothing with it but heartache.

When she was finished, Catra set the knife down. Her chest puffed up and down, needing air, but she ignored it in favor of staring at her handiwork. What remained of the gray tufts was nothing short of a disaster, abysmally uneven and comical to look at. Still, it made her smile. They were gone. Later, she'd steal Scorpia's clippers and neaten it up. For now, she remained content. Her face-protector would hide the damage, for now. If anyone felt bold enough to say anything, she'd put them on the next transport to Beast Island.

Catra ran her hands over her hair, smoothing down the wild tangles and taming it into place. Not a bad look, really. It was long-past time she finally got herself together. Everything once important to her was gone, lost forever in a series of events she could never change. With nothing more to lose, she was ready to change. After sliding on her protector again, she smirked to herself; for once, Adora had been right.

She'd made her choices. Now it was time to live with them.


End file.
